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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020338">never said that i didn't need you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh'>incogneat_oh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>.... of a sort, Aaron Minyard &amp; Andrew Minyard Bonding, Angst and Humor, Canon Compliant, Dysfunctional Family, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, POV Aaron Minyard, Palmetto State University Foxes, Post-Canon, Protective Andrew Minyard, Wholesome Twinyards, entirely unwilling family bonding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:48:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,458</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020338</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Aaron, are you ready to go? The emergency room queue isn’t getting any shorter.”</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>Aaron feels a thrill of nervousness pull unpleasantly in his belly. He doesn’t want to spend the night in a brightly-lit, overcrowded emergency room and have strangers prodding at him. He glances back at Andrew, who looks as disinterested as ever. He’s slouched over, hands in his lap and unmoving, face expressionless. He’s facing forward, but his eyes are on Aaron.</i></p>
<p>  <i>And Aaron’s halfway out the door when he swivels. Blurts, “You’ll come with me?" </i><br/>--<br/>Aaron and Andrew spend an evening hanging out in the emergency department.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>260</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>never said that i didn't need you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>First fic in this fandom! I've only ever written for one fandom before in my life, so this is quite a departure for me.</p>
<p>Content warnings are uhh I guess profanity, dissociation, and the beginnings of a panic attack. It's more chill than it sounds. Look, if you made it through the original trilogy, there should be nothing here that'd give you any pause. However, if you have concerns feel free to message me here or on tumblr (@incogneat-oh)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are 9 minutes left of the game, and the scores are level.</p>
<p>The Breckenridge Jackals are playing as brutally as ever. A couple of the freshman Foxes have already tapped out for the night, a combination of minor injuries and straight up terror. Andrew, he knows, has been holding the line most of the night while the backliners were overwhelmed by the Jackals’ vicious offence.</p>
<p>Aaron’s exhausted but keyed up on adrenaline, twirling his racquet around his hand once to adjust his grip. He takes a deep breath, and glances back to Andrew.</p>
<p>He looks as bored as always, but his face is slightly pinked with exertion. And Aaron thinks, not for the first time, how ridiculous Andrew <em>should </em>look, standing there in the goal. Five foot tall, he should be dwarfed by his goalie pads and the empty space behind him. But Aaron has long envied his brother’s ability to somehow make the world appear smaller just by existing in it.</p>
<p>And he hears the sound of the buzzer over Kevin’s furious French, Neil’s English retort that he can just make out from half court: “Shut <em>up</em>, Kevin, it worked okay?”</p>
<p>The scoreboard says 7-6, Foxes favour. 7 minutes, 52 seconds to go.</p>
<p>Aaron’s been on their #9 striker all night, a burly guy with enough power to more than make up for his lack of speed. He’s mostly refrained from the trash talk so far, but Aaron is still bristling from the start of the game when #9 had looked him up and down (okay, mostly down) with a sneer and said,</p>
<p>“What’s up, peewee.” Like he wasn’t even worth trash talking. Seriously, what the fuck.</p>
<p>Aaron doesn’t deny he’s petty.</p>
<p>But despite his anger, the asshole has mostly managed to bulldoze past him tonight. Andrew’s been picking up his slack. And Nicky’s. And the three little freshman backliners who’d wussed out after their first quarter on the court.</p>
<p>Aaron’s ready to change that. He twirls his racquet again, a nervous habit, as Dan and the Jackals’ dealer get in position. Dan loses the scuffle, and their dealer flings the ball right to Matt’s striker. Matt keeps pace with her, blocks her from taking a shot on the goal, their racquets clacking together loudly. Not enough to change possession. She swears and tries to duck around Matt, without much success, and Aaron’s ready for her to —</p>
<p><em>Ha</em>. He smoothly intercepts the pass to #9, teeth baring in vicious triumph. He swivels fast and runs two, three, four steps ready to pass the ball to Dan. The second the ball leaves his racquet, he half-turns only to see #9 bearing down on him at full speed.</p>
<p>He’s caught between the huge dude and the plexiglass court walls, has nowhere to go.</p>
<p>He tries to brace for impact but it’s too late. He’s crushed against the wall and then he goes down <em>hard</em>——</p>
<p>He has to get up, he thinks. He has to get up and tap out, or else the game keeps going and he doesn’t get subbed out. He has to get up. The world feels very small and Aaron is trying very hard not to think about anything, except that he has to get to his feet and call for a time out.</p>
<p>But the sound, the high pitched ringing Aaron had thought was in his head, must have been the referee’s whistle. They’ve called a time out. Aaron’s breath is uneven. His racquet is on the floor a few feet away. He sees Andrew’s shoes as he rolls onto his side and sits up. Matt moves to stand in front of a smirking #9, looking furious and concerned, saying “Dude, you okay?” and Aaron closes his eyes for a half-second.</p>
<p>He can hear Dan shouting at one of the referees about the illegal check, can hear extra sets of feet on the court floor as they move towards him.</p>
<p>“<em>Aaron</em>,” Andrew says sharply. And he opens his eyes.</p>
<p>“I’m good,” he says, automatically. “Can you-?"</p>
<p>“Andrew,” says Abby, from his other side. She’s on the court with her first aid bag, but Aaron doesn’t think he’s bleeding anywhere. Coach is there too, and one of the referees. “Andrew, I’m going to check him out now, okay?”</p>
<p>Andrew inclines his head and moves, slightly, to allow Abby and Coach access.</p>
<p>“Hey Aaron,” Abby says, crouching down in front of him and trying to smile. She mostly looks stressed, which is how she looks when any of the Foxes get hurt. She looks stressed a lot. Aaron makes to stand up, but— “Try not to move for a minute, okay honey? Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t hit my head,” Aaron tells her. He takes a deep breath. His ribs don’t feel too bad, which is a pleasant surprise given #9 probably has 60 pounds on him. “Can you help me up-? My arm is, it’s — bad,” he chokes on the word. “But I think that’s all.”</p>
<p>Abby nods, but it’s Coach who comes in to steady him as he gets shakily to his feet. Coach clamps a hand on his shoulder as they slowly move to exit the court; Abby walks on his other side, eyes focussed on his left forearm where he holds it, as carefully and steadily as he can, against his chest.</p>
<p>Nicky is waiting at the entrance to the court biting his lip anxiously, grip fidgeting on his own racquet. Ready to be subbed in for Aaron.</p>
<p>“You okay, Aaron? That looked nasty,” he says, brow furrowed. “That asshole totally deserved a red card.”</p>
<p>“I’m good,” he says, again. And, “Be careful out there.”</p>
<p>Nicky nods, wide-eyed but expression uncharacteristically serious. “You got it,” he says, making to bump fists with Aaron. Abruptly, he seems to realise his mistake, eyes flicking to the arm Aaron’s cradling against his chest; he smiles, a little awkwardly, and raps his knuckles gently on Aaron’s helmet instead. And then, looking behind Aaron, he says “Come on, Andrew, we gotta get in position-”</p>
<p>Aaron turns, surprised. His twin has Aaron’s racquet in one hand, holding it out to Abby. But his eyes are on Aaron, and he’s frowning. He’s looking oddly intensely at Aaron, almost questioningly, and it’s kind of weird. They don’t exactly do eye-contact. But then, Andrew is a controlling asshole at the best of times, and God forbid he lets Aaron out of his sight for five minutes even if he’s injured.</p>
<p>Aaron frowns back at him, says, “Go… shut down the goal, or whatever,” to break whatever moment is happening.</p>
<p>Instantly, Andrew’s frown smooths back into his usual blankness; “Don’t tell me what to do.” Flat, automatic. He turns and heads back into the goal.</p>
<p>Aaron huffs out half an incredulous laugh as Nicky squeezes past him and Coach and Abby onto the court. Abby and Coach switch places, Coach taking hold of Aaron’s racquet and Abby putting a much gentler arm around his shoulder. “Come on, Aaron, let’s get you looked at.” </p>
<p>Behind them, he can hear the sound of the game starting up again. He’s confident they’ll win; even though Nicky’s the weaker backliner, there’s not a lot that pisses off the Foxes more than injuring one of their players.</p>
<p>And everyone knows the Foxes are fuelled by spite; it’s the only reason most of them have survived this long.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Abby takes him back to her office, where she has him sit down and helps take off his helmet. She also gently helps him take off his gloves and elbow pads, careful not to jostle his left arm. She keeps up quiet chatter, mostly railing against the Jackals and their playing style. Then she has him lay his arm flat across the bench, and she gingerly feels her way from his elbow to his wrist.</p>
<p>Aaron lets out an involuntary hiss, and Abby grimaces apologetically and steps back. “Well, honey, I think it’s pretty obviously broken. The best thing to do is splint it here, so we can get you to the hospital without disturbing anything, and then we’ll let them deal with it. Sound okay?”</p>
<p>“Fuckin’ peachy,” Aaron mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose with his good hand. It’s not like he’s surprised, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. He remembers, after a moment, to say petulantly, “Thanks Abby.”</p>
<p>She hums in acknowledgment of his words, but she’s got her back to him as she digs through her supplies to find an appropriate splint.</p>
<p>Watching her hunt out the smallest splint size does not exactly improve Aaron’s mood, but he tries not to scowl too obviously when she turns around brandishing it.</p>
<p>“So this is going to be pretty uncomfortable,” Abby tells him, a crease in her brow. “I can give you a painkiller here if you like, but that might limit what they’ll be able to give you at the hospital. It’s your call."</p>
<p>“Just splint it,” he says.</p>
<p>Abby smirks a little, then, teasingly, says “I see how it is, tough guy,” and begins to unwrap the splint. And then, it occurs to her to say “Oh! Do you want us to let Katelyn back here? She’s at the game, right?”</p>
<p>Aaron feels a pang in his chest that he tries to brush off, says “She’s actually out of the state, visiting her family.”</p>
<p>“In the middle of semester? I hope everything is okay,” says Abby, and Aaron likes this about Abby. Her tone makes it okay to ignore her questions, or to open up. She never seems to mind either way, and having the <em>option</em> to say nothing somehow makes it easier to actually talk.</p>
<p>And, well. Aaron always kind of wants to talk about Katelyn.</p>
<p>“Yeah, she’s actually really excited,” he tells her. “Her cousin’s about to have a baby and she didn’t want to miss it.” He already misses her, and it’s only been 3 days. He adds, grudgingly, “It’s probably good she wasn’t at the game tonight. I’m glad I didn’t scare her when I didn’t get up right away.”</p>
<p>Abby sighs at that, agrees, “It’s hard watching Exy games when you care about the players.”</p>
<p>After that, she works quickly and efficiently to get his broken arm secured in the splint. It sucks, as anticipated. At one point a freshman sticks their head through the doorway, looks wide-eyed at a sweating, scowling Aaron, and saysto Abby, “Thought you’d want to know we won. Coach is sending the captains for press now.” and then immediately disappears.</p>
<p>After, with a little difficulty and some assistance from Abby, he manages to change out the bottom half of his uniform for sweats, but he’s stuck wearing his game jersey for now.</p>
<p>Then Wymack raps his knuckles on the door to Abby’s office and comes in, says, “How we doing in here?”</p>
<p>“It’s broken,” Abby says, positioning an ice pack carefully over Aaron’s newly-splinted arm. “It’s secured for now, so we’ll head off for the emergency room in a minute.”</p>
<p>“Sucks, kid. It was a rough hit,” says Coach, and Aaron says “Tell me about it.”</p>
<p>And the game can’t have been over for more than a couple minutes, which is why Aaron’s shocked to see Andrew appear in the doorway a minute later, hair still dripping wet from his post-game shower, his and Aaron’s duffels over his shoulder. He shoves, in a friendlyish way (by Andrew’s standards, anyway), past Wymack in the doorway.</p>
<p>“Good game tonight, Andrew,” Coach tells him, unperturbed.</p>
<p>“Question or statement?” says Andrew mildly, without turning around. “Broken?” This, to Aaron.</p>
<p>It’s Abby that answers with “Yes, we’re going to the emergency room now. He’ll need it casted but it should be fine,” at the same time as Aaron parrots “question or statement?” halfway under his breath.</p>
<p>Andrew fixes him with his most bored look, and makes a point of dropping his duffel at his feet. He stares into Aaron’s face for a minute, wordlessly; the weight of his full attention always makes Aaron want to squirm. But of course, Aaron can never keep Andrew’s attention for long. That’s a privilege reserved for Kevin Goddamn Day and <em>Neil</em>.</p>
<p>Andrew moves from where he’s standing in front of Aaron, hops up to sit on the other end of the examination table. And doesn’t look at him or say anything else.</p>
<p>Abby and Coach are talking to each other about the game, but Aaron doesn’t pay them any attention. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. He wishes he were going to Eden’s after this, or the basement in Fox Tower with the team’s lame-ass drunk Monopoly. Or Katelyn’s dorm to drink fruity vodka mixes and watch movies with her.</p>
<p>He’s so zoned out he barely catches Abby saying his name.</p>
<p>“Huh?” he opens his eyes.</p>
<p>“I said, are you ready to go? The emergency room queue isn’t getting any shorter.”</p>
<p>Aaron nods, distractedly, hopping down off the bench and stooping to get his bag from the floor. He feels a thrill of nervousness pull unpleasantly in his belly. He doesn’t want to spend the night in a brightly-lit, overcrowded emergency room and have strangers prodding at him.</p>
<p>He glances back at Andrew, who looks as disinterested as ever. He’s slouched over, hands in his lap and unmoving, face expressionless. He’s facing forward, but his eyes are on Aaron.</p>
<p>Aaron —</p>
<p>Aaron doesn’t say anything, and goes to the door behind Abby and Wymack. Wymack is grumbling about having to go talk to Breckenridge’s coach, muttering, “How am I supposed to be civil after that shitshow, ‘Good game Davidson, want to <em>not </em>try and murder my players next time’?”</p>
<p>And Abby sounds amused when she says, “I know <em>I know</em>, okay, but it’s a violent game so you’ll have to put on a friendly face and bite your tongue. Be diplomatic, set a good example for Neil—”</p>
<p>Aaron’s halfway out the door when he swivels. Blurts, “You’ll come with me?”</p>
<p>Distantly, he registers Abby and Coach’s conversation coming to an abrupt end.</p>
<p>Andrew blinks at him, slowly. And without a word, he slides down from the bench, shoulders his duffel, and comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Aaron in the doorway. Then he takes Aaron’s bag from his unresisting right hand.</p>
<p>Aaron stares.</p>
<p>Stares for so long, in fact, he sees Andrew’s eyebrow slowly inching up in a question. Aaron shakes himself and calls “Abby?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, honey, let’s get going if you’re ready,” Abby tells him, where she’s standing in the hallway with Coach. She’s smiling at him in a kind of gentle way that makes Aaron’s ears hot and he mutters, “Let’s go.”</p>
<p>Coach farewells them with a gruff “Good luck,” and when Aaron says he’ll be fine, Coach snorts and says, “I was talking to Abby. <em>You, </em>behave. Keep in touch.”</p>
<p>He gives Aaron a friendly slap on the back before he’s gone. The three of them, Abby and Andrew and Aaron, are most of their way to Abby’s car in its reserved space in the Court parking lot when they hear Nicky call out behind them.</p>
<p>He and Andrew turn to see Nicky, Kevin and Neil, the former jogging to catch up and the other two trailing behind. “You good?” Nicky asks him, earnestly. “We tried to meet up with you in Abby’s office but you were already gone. You guys going to the hospital?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Gotta get a cast on this,” Aaron gestures vaguely to his splinted forearm.</p>
<p>“Oh no, it’s broken?” says Nicky, and “While Katelyn’s out of town, too!”</p>
<p>Ordinarily, Aaron would retort that he’s a big boy and can handle a minor booboo <em>without</em> his girlfriend to hold his hand, but. Well. He was thinking the same thing. And he knows Nicky meant it sincerely.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Nicky’s brow is furrowed as he calculates the two bags on Andrew’s shoulder, the fact the three of them are standing beside Abby’s sedan. He says, “You <em>all </em>are going to the hospital?”</p>
<p>Andrew hums an agreement, while Aaron struggles not to drop his gaze to his shoes. Instead, he gets to watch a brief, entirely wordless conversation take place between his brother and <em>Neil, </em>that ends with Andrew taking his keys out of his pocket and handing them to Neil. Since Neil definitely has his own keys to the car and to the dorm, Aaron can only assume that it’s a ritual designed to formally hand over custody of Kevin.</p>
<p>Nicky’s beaming when he says “That’s great, you two! Hey, should I come? I can keep you company in the waiting room!”</p>
<p>Aaron flicks his gaze to Andrew, catches Andrew equally quickly flicking his gaze to Aaron. He says, “Nah, go back to the dorms and celebrate the win. Drink a couple shots for me, will you?”</p>
<p>Nicky visibly perks up at the mention of alcohol, and Aaron only feels a <em>little</em> guilty. It’s typical, really; for years, Nicky’s been hounding Aaron and Andrew about what he calls a ‘twin thing’, questioning them repeatedly to try and figure out some psychic connection they definitely don’t share. It figures that the one time they <em>do</em> communicate something basically telepathically, it’s to silently agree that neither one of them can handle a night spent entertaining a wound-up Nicky in the emergency waiting room.</p>
<p>“Come on, Minyards,” calls Abby far too cheerfully, climbing into the car. She gently cuts off Kevin’s repeated questioning about how soon Aaron will be able to play again.</p>
<p>Aaron tells Nicky, “Don’t wait up, okay?” and gets in the front passenger side. Let Andrew ride in the back for a change.</p>
<p>Andrew, presumably after another round of weirdly intense eye-contact with his dumb boyfriend, tosses their bags across the back seat and climbs in after them wordlessly; Abby starts the engine and the radio, and they drive away from the Court.</p>
<p>———</p>
<p>The emergency room is not as busy as it could be, especially for a Friday night. But it still looks like they’ll be stuck here awhile.</p>
<p>Aaron is still seething; not only is his arm really painful (oh yeah, they’ll bring out some painkillers for him <em>in a minute</em>, if he can just take a seat - what the <em>fuck</em>), not only is he still stuck in his sweaty game jersey, but! the goddamned admissions nurse had taken one look at his splinted arm, his bright coloured jersey and his <em>goddamn height</em>, and said “Aw buddy! You take a spill in your juniors game or something?” <em>and tried to hand him a lollipop.</em></p>
<p>While Aaron had spluttered, furiously, ready to tell the guy where to stick his <em>buddy </em>comments, Andrew had leaned in and flatly said, “We’re 21.” He’d taken the lollipop though.</p>
<p>Abby had stayed behind at the desk to get the appropriate paperwork while Andrew had wandered off to find them seats that fit his weirdly specific seating preferences. </p>
<p>He obviously found some that are good enough, because now they’re seated, Abby absentmindedly fiddling with the pen while she looks over the patient paperwork. She starts to fill it in, but after the third time she has to apologetically confirm bits of Aaron’s medical history, Andrew reaches for the clipboard and snaps his fingers.</p>
<p>Abby’s questioning expression is wasted on Andrew, who hasn’t even turned to look at her. “Andrew, are you sure—”</p>
<p>He taps a finger to his temple, presumably a reference to his <em>perfect</em> memory, and says “I’ve got it.”</p>
<p>Abby glances at Aaron, then passes the clipboard and pen to Andrew. Aaron is halfway convinced that Andrew will fling the clipboard straight through the glass doors, but instead he picks up from where Abby left off, pausing only to say, in a tone of exaggerated surprise, “Wait, you spell ‘Aaron’ with <em>two</em> ‘A’s?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t even respond, just rolls his eyes. He’s feeling antsy now, jittering and sweaty and a little nauseous, and it’s similar enough to the early stages of withdrawal to make his scowl deepen.</p>
<p>For a few minutes, the three of them sit in silence. Abby’s absently frowning down at her phone, and Andrew is wrapping up the last of Aaron’s paperwork. Aaron, trying to distract himself from his increasing anxiety, had peeked at the forms to make sure Andrew wasn’t filling them with nonsense, but all the answers so far were accurate.</p>
<p>Aaron’s knee is bouncing up and down, his right hand pinching repeatedly at the spongy corners of the splint on his arm. The icepack is half-melted by now and it’s starting to make him feel weird and shivery. So he leans over to dig through his duffel bag at his feet, hoping against hope his team windbreaker will be in there.</p>
<p>It’s rolled up and shoved in the top; he doesn’t remember putting it in there but he’s glad he’s got it with him. It might be hugely oversized and neon orange, but it’s comfortable as all hell. They’re regularly used as pillows or blankets for long bus rides on away games. He unrolls it one-handed, and awkwardly tries to wrap it around his shoulders without moving his left arm at all.</p>
<p>As soon as she’s noticed what he’s doing, Abby leans in and smoothly tucks it around him.</p>
<p>She goes to speak, but Andrew’s finished. He wordlessly thrusts the clipboard back at Abby, who thanks him (it’s predictably ignored), and she heads back up to the front desk to pass the paperwork in. Hopefully that means his painkillers will be coming soon; the pain is much worse than it was even half an hour ago.</p>
<p>On her way back to their seats, Abby pauses and digs her phone out of her pocket. She holds up a hand and gives an apologetic grimace while she answers the phone, and walks out through the automatic doors.</p>
<p>Aaron, still feeling jittery, is glancing around the waiting room. He’s surprised to see Andrew already looking at him. He raises an eyebrow the tiniest fraction at Aaron’s bouncing knee and Aaron huffs, turning away from his brother’s judgemental gaze.</p>
<p>He half-turns, though, when he notices Andrew’s warm presence is gone from his side. He looks around the waiting room, already frowning, only to see Andrew sauntering to a stack of magazines by some empty seats, a few rows away. He turns back to face Aaron, and holds up a copy of - Aaron squints - fucking <em>Highlights</em>, an eyebrow raised in question.</p>
<p>Aaron flips him off and sinks down in his seat, seething.</p>
<p>Andrew, looking as unconcerned as ever, drops the magazine to the floor and comes back. He’s holding a few old issues of National Geographic and a semi-recent copy of <em>Exy Today</em>, which he tosses onto Abby’s vacated seat. (There is also an old <em>Where’s Waldo</em> book that Aaron has no intention of asking about.) Andrew drops back down into his own chair and kicks his feet up on his duffel, leaning his head against the wall behind him.</p>
<p>That’s when Abby comes back, grimacing. “Look, Aaron,” she says. “I’m <em>so</em> sorry to ask, but do you think you guys will be okay here without me for a bit? David just called and said that Everett—” here she pauses and rubs her forehead, looking exhausted - “I don’t really want to get into it. One of our freshmen apparently fainted after the game and if I don’t go and check him out David will need to take him <em>here</em> to get checked out, even though I’m <em>sure</em> there’s nothing wrong.” She stops again, and sighs. Before she speaks again, Aaron interrupts to say,</p>
<p>“We’ll be fine. Go do what you have to do, it’s really okay.”</p>
<p>Abby peers at him doubtfully, says, “Are you sure—”</p>
<p>Andrew interrupts this time. He prods Aaron’s cheekbone and says, “Look, he’s got his toughest face on. You can tell, because it looks like <em>my </em>face all the time.”</p>
<p>Aaron swats Andrew’s hand away like it’s a fly, and decides for his sanity that he doesn’t see the slightest twitch of a smile on Abby’s face. He says, determinedly ignoring his brother, “Really, Abby. We’re good.”</p>
<p>She looks between them, lips pursed. Then she sighs. “Okay. If I can’t come back right away, I’ll send David. If you need us sooner, just call, and one or both of us will be here as quick as we can. And—” she hesitates, eventually says “<em>behave</em>, okay?”</p>
<p>Aaron hears the slightest huff of breath from Andrew, that from almost anyone else on the planet he’d consider a laugh. But when Aaron suspiciously eyes his twin, he looks just as blank-faced as ever.</p>
<p>Whatever.</p>
<p>“What kind of trouble does she think we can get into, sitting in an emergency room?” Aaron laments half-heartedly, after Abby’s walked out with a final wave. He’s eyeing the ceiling, trying to distract himself from the increasing pain in his arm. “What does she think we’ll do, burn the place down?”</p>
<p>Andrew just <em>hmms </em>and leans back, mirroring Aaron’s posture exactly. They stare up at the popcorn ceiling together in silence.</p>
<p>Aaron crosses and uncrosses his legs. Pinches at the edges of his splint again. Wriggles his toes in his shoes and glowers at the ceiling. His arm <em>really fucking hurts.</em></p>
<p>At length, he says, “I know why <em>I’m </em>fidgeting, but why are you?”</p>
<p>To anyone else in the world, Andrew looks exactly as settled as always. But Aaron knows better, and Andrew’s hand moving twice in as many minutes, even fractionally, means he’s <em>definitely</em> fidgeting.</p>
<p>When he glances at Andrew out of the corner of his eye, he doesn’t look thrilled by Aaron’s observation, or his question. Aaron figures he’s not going to answer at all, which is why he’s surprised to see Andrew’s jaw working minutely. “Cigarette,” he admits eventually, grudgingly.</p>
<p>Aaron feels his nose wrinkle automatically, says “You can go and smoke.”</p>
<p>Andrew, somewhat more predictably, ignores this. Acts as if he didn’t hear it at all.</p>
<p>And Aaron’s puzzling over it for a full minute. He says, sounding confused even to himself, “I’ll be okay in here alone, you know.”</p>
<p>Andrew slants a sideways look at him, looking so blatantly doubtful that Aaron huffs.</p>
<p>“Whatever,” he says. “Your loss.” And then, unable to help himself, he sits up straighter and cranes his neck, mutters “Where the fuck are my painkillers, seriously.”</p>
<p>Andrew stands up then in a smooth motion, says “I’ll check.”, which, <em>shit</em>. Aaron knows better than to touch his brother, especially if he’s not expecting it, but Aaron still reaches out to stop him, snagging the back of his shirt with his good hand. He doesn’t particularly feel like getting kicked out of a hospital ER and getting arrested, especially not before they fix up his arm.</p>
<p>Andrew half-turns and stares down at him wordlessly for a minute, taking in Aaron’s pleading, mildly panicked expression impassively. He leans down a little and says, the words positively <em>dripping</em> with irony, “What do you think I’m going to do? Burn the place down?”</p>
<p>Aaron sets his jaw, doesn’t release Andrew’s shirt. They stare each other down for almost a full minute, neither one of them willing to back down, before a voice says “A. Minyard?”</p>
<p>Andrew and Aaron each quirk an eyebrow at each other, mirror images, and say “Yes,” simultaneously (though in vastly different tones). Andrew has turned around and shifted so he is mostly standing in front of Aaron, but not enough to block his view of the hospital staff person that stands there, a clipboard in one hand and a tiny paper cup in the other.</p>
<p>She blinks for a moment, disoriented by either his and Andrew’s matching faces, or the sheer malice that radiates off of Andrew like fucking cologne. But she smiles then, says, “I think I’m probably here for you,” gesturing to Aaron’s clearly broken arm. “Aaron?”</p>
<p>“Yep,” Aaron says, holding out a hand expectantly. “Painkillers?”</p>
<p>“Mhm, can you please just verify your date of birth? And do you have any allergies?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aaron rattles off the date and a no, still holding out his hand. Andrew shifts a little out of the way to let the woman hand the paper cup over; there are two little pills in there and Aaron throws them back like a shot and swallows them dry, hands back the empty cup. Remembers, belatedly, to say “Thanks.”</p>
<p>“No problem,” she says, noting something down on the clipboard and turning to leave. She says, over her shoulder, “Sorry about the wait, hopefully shouldn’t be too much longer til they can get you into ortho.”</p>
<p>Andrew sits back down and kicks his feet back up on his duffel.</p>
<p>Aaron gripes, “They better not’ve given me any of that slow release shit, this fucking <em>hurts</em>.”</p>
<p>And Andrew doesn’t say anything, but he does lean over, across the arm of Aaron’s chair, and carefully lift the now-melted icepack off of Aaron’s busted arm. It’s swollen around the straps of the splint and the bruising has started to spread. It doesn’t look much like Aaron’s arm at all, and he feels kind of queasy looking at it, so he goes back to staring at the ceiling.</p>
<p>Andrew peers interestedly at his broken arm for another minute before he sits back in his seat. He drops the useless icepack to the floor with a wet-sounding <em>thwack </em>and Aaron smothers a sigh.</p>
<p>Abruptly, he feels exhausted. His arm is a mix of icy numbness and sharp agony, the rest of him is remembering that earlier tonight he was crushed against the court wall by a much larger body, and the mingled unpleasantness of bright fluorescent strips and the smell of hardcore disinfectant is making him feel unsteady and sick. He wants to lie down.</p>
<p>He closes his heavy eyelids and breathes deep through his nose. He’s still cold and shivery, in spite of the Foxes windbreaker. He’s acutely aware of everywhere his sweaty, gross jersey is sticking to his clammy skin.</p>
<p>He spends the next few minutes trying to get comfortable. Scrunches down in the chair as far as he can, tries to wedge his good arm against the plastic armrest like <em>so</em>, and then if he kind of tucks his head like <em>this</em> — he is still super uncomfortable. Shit.</p>
<p>He twists around, presses the back of his head against the wall but then the backrest of the chair digs into his shoulder blade, and the pull of the windbreaker against the back of the chair slowly tugs it off his shoulder. He squinches his eyes more tightly shut, and represses the urge to sigh. Or swear and kick his duffel. He focusses, very determinedly, on breathing steadily and calmly. Although he doesn’t feel either of those things right now.</p>
<p>Andrew speaks then, says haltingly, “You can put your head here, but you can’t touch me anywhere else.” He’s touching his own shoulder with his opposite hand, and he’s not even looking at Aaron. His eyes are fixed firmly ahead, a muscle jumping minutely in his jaw.</p>
<p>And Aaron — doesn’t even know what to say to that, gapes at him for a half a minute without speaking. Then he abruptly looks away from Andrew, mumbles, “It’s fine—”</p>
<p>“If I didn’t mean it,” Andrew interrupts, through gritted teeth. “I wouldn’t have said it.”</p>
<p>Aaron just nods in response, unsure how to answer. After a minute, slow enough Andrew could move away if he wanted, slow enough Andrew could probably move <em>states </em>before he makes contact, Aaron half-shuffles over in his seat, tries to arrange himself as comfortably as possible, and then lowers his head to rest on his brother’s shoulder.</p>
<p>It’s weird. It’s really fucking weird. It’s probably the closest they’ve been since the <em>womb</em>, and for a minute Aaron is stiff and can feel every tensed muscle of Andrew’s under his head. He stays put for a full minute, then two.</p>
<p>“This feels weird,” he mutters, feeling oddly embarrassed.</p>
<p>“Did I fucking ask,” Andrew mutters back, in <em>precisely </em>the same tone.</p>
<p>But Aaron doesn’t move, and Andrew doesn’t move, and eventually Aaron feels himself slowly starts to relax. He feels Andrew do the same, the tension slowly easing out of his frame.</p>
<p>Aaron checks, “Okay?” and Andrew gives a tiny <em>mhm</em> of agreement.</p>
<p>And he still feels godawful, but at a 45º degree angle, half-bent over the armrest of the chair, his feet tucked up on his duffel, and hearing what he thinks is maybe Andrew’s heartbeat, faintly, where his ear is pressed, it’s … bearable. Andrew is warm and solid and stable and the smell of familiar laundry detergent is much preferable to the distinctive hospital smell. If he lifts his shoulder and tucks his head a little further, the dramatic oversized collar of the windbreaker even half-covers his face and blocks out some of the aggressive fluorescent lighting, and when he closes his eyes again it’s much easier to pretend he’s somewhere else.</p>
<p>Andrew won’t let anything happen, he knows. So he can stay here for a bit, and relax.</p>
<p>Absently, distantly, he starts to drift. Remembering the last time he and Andrew were in a hospital at the same time. A day Aaron tries not to think about, that he and Andrew never talk about, not even with Dr Dobson. Not yet.</p>
<p>It was right after the car crash, and Aaron had been numbly walking down the hallways to see Andrew, a broken record of <em>she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead</em> repeating again and again in his head, and then he’d seen his brother. A stranger wearing his face.</p>
<p>Andrew had been sat up in bed, both eyes blackened, his nose broken, butterfly clips holding a gash at his hairline together. His arm had been strapped to his side to stabilise a broken collarbone, but he was alive. And when Aaron had approached the bed, wondering if Andrew knew yet that they were effectively orphans, that they had no place to go, Andrew had leaned in to grab Aaron’s wrist, hard enough to bruise. His eyes were bright and slightly manic with concussion when he yanked him close, whispered hoarsely, “Do you see, Aaron? It’s done. She can’t hurt you any more…”</p>
<p>And Aaron had flinched back, wrenching out of Andrew’s grip, his chest heaving with revulsion and a visceral, crawling sense of <em>horror</em>, and he’d watched as Andrew’s expression had changed, minutely, a flash of something like confusion, like <em>hurt</em>, and Aaron had just stared down at his twin, gripping his aching wrist, every thought derailing into white hot panic —</p>
<p>He can still feel the ghost of Andrew’s grip on his forearm, so tight it’s painful, it hurts, it <em>really hurts</em> —</p>
<p>Aaron is breathing too quickly, his heartbeat speeding up. He’s distantly aware he’s grabbed the underside of his splint, is starting to squeeze—</p>
<p>But abruptly, he smells something that’s… artificial grape? It’s enough to pull him out of his head, bring him slamming back out of his shitty memories to the not-that-terrible present, and he moves his head minutely to open one eye and squint up at Andrew. Who is eating that fucking lollipop from Aaron’s arch-enemy at the desk, while he mechanically turns the pages of an issue of National Geographic.</p>
<p>He seems to notice Aaron’s sudden attention, because when he glances down to meet Aaron’s gaze one side of his mouth barely twitches but Aaron is <em>sure </em>it’s a smirk.</p>
<p>“You’re seriously eating that?” Aaron says, as flatly as he can.</p>
<p>“Apparently,” Andrew says mildly. He looks back to the magazine, but pulls the candy out of his mouth with a <em>pop</em> and holds it out to Aaron. “Want some?”</p>
<p>“Euuugh,” Aaron cringes away and flaps a hand at Andrew and his dark purple spit-shiny lollipop. “<em>No</em>, shove off.”</p>
<p>He shrugs, very slightly, not enough to dislodge Aaron, and jams it back in his own mouth. He’s reached the end of the magazine, and he silently swaps it for another  issue on the chair.</p>
<p>“Learn anything interesting,” Aaron says, closing his eyes again. The pain in his arm feels a little more distant now, but he still feels exhausted and shivery.</p>
<p>“Depends on your definition of interesting.”</p>
<p>Aaron sighs. “Try me,” he mumbles, after a moment, wondering if he’s pushing his luck. He decides he doesn’t care.</p>
<p>Andrew says, without an ounce of inflection, “Three percent of ice in Antarctic glaciers is made up of penguin pee.”</p>
<p>“You’re lying.”</p>
<p>Andrew ignores him, which probably means he’s not lying. Aaron can hear him still steadily flipping pages.</p>
<p>Aaron considers this. “What the fuck,” he says eventually. “Three percent?”</p>
<p>“Three percent,” Andrew confirms.</p>
<p>“That’s a lot of pee.”</p>
<p>“Mhm.”</p>
<p>“<em>Gross</em>,” Aaron says, with feeling.</p>
<p>“Yep.”</p>
<p>And Aaron’s still half-drifting, not sleeping but zoning in and out of awareness, listening to the very occasional weird fact Andrew decides to share (Aaron is almost sure that he’s moved onto an issue of <em>Highlights</em>, now, but he’s choosing not to question it) until sometime much later when Andrew jostles him and nudges his side.</p>
<p>“That’s you,” he says.</p>
<p>“Hmm?” Aaron’s not entirely aware when half sits up, squinting at the bright-ass lights. “Me?”</p>
<p>“Well unless they’re calling <em>me</em>, A. Minyard. But I imagine they’re somewhat interested in your arm.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” says Aaron. “Shit,” and he fumbles his way upright. Andrew grabs both of their duffels before Aaron can reach for his, and at Aaron’s slightly bewildered look, points to a harassed-looking nurse holding a clipboard.</p>
<p>As they approach, she reads off her clipboard “Broken arm?”</p>
<p>Aaron, feeling that his electric blue splint speaks for itself, elects not to answer. It seems to be rhetorical, anyway, because she nods to herself and says “This way,” and turns without waiting for a word from either one of them.</p>
<p>They follow her down a few brightly lit halls and into a cramped little exam room with an examination bed and a lot of locked cabinets. “Shouldn’t be more than 5 or 10 minutes,” the nurse tells them. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable here, though, they’ll want to take you for an x-ray before anything else.”</p>
<p>She hurries off, and Aaron props himself up against the end of the bed and sighs. Andrew has dropped both their duffels in the corner. He stands with his back to the wall, surveying the room with a slight frown.</p>
<p>He drums his fingers against the railing at the end of the bed, and finds his gaze drawn to Andrew’s face. Andrew has likely noticed the scrutiny, but true to form has elected to ignore it. There’s something — Aaron frowns.</p>
<p>“… are your lips black?”</p>
<p>“Purple,” Andrew corrects. He pokes his lollipop-dyed, black tongue out for proof, and Aaron makes a show of rolling his eyes.</p>
<p>“This is why grown ups don’t tend to eat lollipops, you know.”</p>
<p>“You’re right,” Andrew says, propping himself against the wall. “I would hate for any of these strangers in a hospital late on a Friday night to judge me.” His eyes slide to Aaron, and he adds, blithely, “<em>Buddy</em>.”</p>
<p>“Fuck off,” Aaron huffs, but betrays himself with a little laugh.</p>
<p>It’s only a few minutes later when there’s a half-hearted knock on the open door, and a dark haired woman wearing chunky glasses and a lab coat pokes her head in. “Hello,” she says, smiling. She makes her way over to Aaron. “I’m Dr. Bloom, I’m an orthopaedic specialist. How’d you hurt yourself?”</p>
<p>“Exy game,” Aaron says tightly. The doctor’s been in the room for 15 seconds, and already Aaron feels done answering stupid questions.</p>
<p>“Mhm, a tackle, or did you trip?”</p>
<p>Aaron purses his lips.</p>
<p>“Fullbody hit,” says Andrew, from beside him, and Aaron jumps. When did he get so close to the bed? “He was tackled into the wall at full speed by a player with probably 50 or 60 pounds over him.”</p>
<p>Dr. Bloom whistles, not looking up, and says, “Sounds nasty. Do you mind if I do a quick check for injuries other than your arm? Since you’ll be getting some imaging done anyway, it’d be good not to get any unpleasant surprises. It’s better to know upfront.”</p>
<p>Aaron gives an aborted shrug, says, “Sure, but I don’t think I’m hurt anywhere else.”</p>
<p>“Mm, pain’s funny that way,” Dr. Bloom says absently, motioning Aaron to hop onto the bed, but keeping her eyes on his splinted arm. “When you have a really bad pain, like, say, from a very clearly broken arm, your body’s going to focus all its attention on that, instead of focusing on smaller or less obvious injuries. That’s why it’s better to check and be sure.”</p>
<p>Aaron nods; he wants to get this over with. He lays down at Dr. Bloom’s instruction, as she says, “We can have your friend—” she motions to Andrew, does a slight double take on seeing him properly for the first time, and automatically corrects “—uh, <em>brother</em>, wait in the hall if you’d like some privacy.”</p>
<p>Aaron automatically goes to sit up, oddly panicked at the thought. “No, that’s—” he starts to say.</p>
<p>Andrew folds his arms over his chest and says, flatly, “I’m his emotional support twin.”</p>
<p>Dr. Bloom laughs at that, loud and bright, says “Well, that’s a new one on me. Okay then. Let’s make this as quick and painless as possible.”</p>
<p>She checks his knees, his hips, his spine, his left arm and his right upper arm and shoulder. She lifts his jersey to check his ribs and chest, keeping up a quiet commentary and repeatedly checking what hurts. Finally, satisfied there’s nothing else wrong with him other than the usual post-game bruises, she says she’s going to check him for head injuries.</p>
<p>“We wear helmets,” Aaron argues, sitting up now. “And I didn’t even hit my head.”</p>
<p>“Humor me, okay tough guy?” Dr. Bloom says, smiling. Why the shit does everyone keep calling him that? “You didn’t lose consciousness? No dizziness or confusion?”</p>
<p>“You lost a couple seconds right after the hit,” Andrew says, and Aaron shoots him a betrayed look. “Long enough that you didn’t call for a sub.”</p>
<p>“It’s not unusual to lose a bit of time from the immediate shock or pain of a broken bone,” Dr. Bloom tells him, feeling around his head with her gloved hands.</p>
<p>Aaron, though, is looking past her at Andrew, parsing his words. He says, “<em>You</em> called that time out?”</p>
<p>Andrew stares down at him from the end of the bed, says, “I saw your face when you hit the glass.” His jaw is gritted, something Aaron recognises as anger in his gaze. But it’s not directed at Aaron, so he elects to ignore it. He’ll never understand Andrew, and if it’s that important it’ll probably come up in their shared session with Dr. Dobson next week. If not, then Aaron doesn’t care anyway.</p>
<p>Dr. Bloom pulls out a little pen torch and shines it into his eyes (<em>ugh</em>), while she says, “You play exy too, for the same team?” Obviously directed at Andrew.</p>
<p>Aaron recognises the look on Andrew’s face as the one that says he’s done with social interaction, so he answers for his brother; “He’s goalkeeper.”</p>
<p>“Mm?” the doctor hums, feeling along Aaron’s jaw and tilting his head side to side. “What position do you play?”</p>
<p>“Backliner,” Aaron grunts.</p>
<p>“You know,” Dr. Bloom says distractedly. “I think it’s really nice the two of you are so close, going to the same college and playing exy together.”</p>
<p>Aaron meets Andrew’s gaze over the doctor’s shoulder; he’s staring impassively now, all traces of anger vanished from his face.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” says Aaron, watching Andrew’s eyes narrow fractionally. “We get that all the time.”</p>
<p>There is a minute twitch of expression on Andrew’s face, like <em>amusement</em>, before he looks away. <em>Ha</em>, thinks Aaron, with a thrill of triumph.</p>
<p>Dr. Bloom moves back then, at last, and says, “Right, I think we can take you down the hall for that x-ray now. We can pretty safely say the arm’s the worst of it.”</p>
<p>Aaron sits up and straightens his jersey, climbs down off the bed a little clumsily. He reaches for his windbreaker where he’d left it chucked over the end of the bed, says belatedly “Can we leave our stuff here-?”</p>
<p>“Oh yes, no one will disturb it. The x-ray machine is just two doors down. Although you’re welcome to stay here,” she addresses Andrew again.</p>
<p>He <em>glowers</em>, and she laughingly parrots, “<em>Emotional support twin</em>, right. Sorry I forgot.”</p>
<p>On their way down the hall, Aaron flicks his gaze to Andrew and back. He figures his twin is not really used to people laughing when he’s got his menacing expression dialled up to 11, but he doesn’t look too bothered. He’s probably just glad he got his way.</p>
<p>Getting the x-rays is an annoying, painful process, during which they drape him in a giant lead vest, remove his splint, prod him about, and make him move his <em>very broken arm </em>into like four different positions to get proper images. They let Andrew come with him into the room, but they make him go in the tiny radiographer’s booth thing before they take the x-rays, to limit exposure to radiation.</p>
<p>After that they’re allowed to go and settle back in their little exam room while they wait for Dr. Bloom to come back with the x-rays. Aaron sits back up on the bed, and Andrew drags a chair around to sit against the wall facing the door.</p>
<p>Aaron, a little on edge, continues drumming the fingers of his good hand against the railing of the bed. Andrew, because he is a total shit, responds by tapping the base of his chair on the off-beat. But otherwise, they sit in silence.</p>
<p>Dr. Bloom comes back in a few minutes, smiling big at Aaron. “Well, surprising no one, the arm is broken. The good news is, it’s a nice clean break in a low-risk spot, so there won’t be any need for surgery.”</p>
<p>Aaron blanks. “Surgery?” he says, dumbly. It didn’t even occur to him that that was an option.</p>
<p>“Yeah, it’s pretty common for forearm fractures in adults,” Dr. Bloom says. “But like I said, thankfully not necessary in your case, which should simplify the healing process quite a bit. We will need to perform a minor reduction before we cast it though. But then you can go home.”</p>
<p>“Reduction?” Aaron repeats.</p>
<p>“It’s a simple enough process, but it’s going to hurt,” she says plainly, grimacing a little. “Basically we’re just going to give the bone a gentle-” she makes a violent motion with her hands, and Aaron abruptly feels queasy again, “-to get it in the right alignment. We want to make sure the bone isn’t going to heal crooked.”</p>
<p>Aaron stares at the doctor, barely aware his mouth is hanging open. He hates every single word she just said.</p>
<p>“So, I’m going to grab a few colleagues to assist, and we’ll be right back. We’ll make it as quick as we can for you, okay Aaron?” she assures him, giving him a smile. “Don’t go anywhere.”</p>
<p>She leaves the room, and Aaron stares after her. He’s frowning now, fear twisting deep in his gut. Silently, he tells himself; it’s going to hurt, but it will be quick. He can take it.</p>
<p>He stares down at his broken arm in his lap, flexes his fingers very slightly. He closes his eyes and breathes deep. It’ll be fine.</p>
<p>That doesn’t stop him from flinching when the door opens again, Dr. Bloom and two guys and a woman in hospital scrubs and name tags.</p>
<p>“Okay, everyone, this is Aaron,” Dr. Bloom says perfunctorily. She stops to pin up an x-ray to the light boxes lining the walls, and Aaron grimaces and looks away from his own broken bone. In a few days or weeks, maybe, he thinks he’ll be happy to look at the films. But right now, the pain fresh in his broken and apparently crooked arm, he can’t imagine much worse than examining his own insides. He determinedly tunes out while Dr. Bloom gives some brief instructions to the orderlies or nurses or whoever they are, scowls down at his shoes where they hang over the end of the bed.</p>
<p>Then things move very fast, and they’re surrounding the bed and having him lie down again, and Aaron is starting to panic. Andrew is standing right there by the bed, close enough his chest is nearly brushing Aaron’s shoulder, but he’s not looking at Aaron; he’s glowering at the hospital staff.</p>
<p>They’re getting into position, two by his broken arm and one going <em>behind him</em> which he really doesn’t like, and Dr. Bloom leans in and tells him “Okay Aaron, we’re about ready to go. Tough college athlete like you’ll be fine.” She smiles at him, says, “You’ve probably had training sessions that hurt worse. So just breathe deep through your nose and remember it’ll be over quick, mhm?”</p>
<p>Aaron feels himself nodding. He’s getting himself ready, starts to breathe through his nose — but that’s when they hold him down.</p>
<p>The guy behind him holds his shoulders firmly against the bed, and before Aaron can protest, the other two are each positioning themselves at each end of his broken forearm. Abruptly, Aaron realises he can’t do this. He literally can’t do it, he needs to <em>immediately</em> be any other place than here. He’d rather be in a final for a class he’s never taken. He’d rather be doing a one-on-one practice with Kevin listing his failures, one after the other. He’d rather go to lunch with <em>Josten</em>.</p>
<p>He can’t breathe properly and his ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton; sounds are blurry and distant; from very far away, he can hear Dr. Bloom talking to the other hospital staff. His heart is racing, his face is getting hot, and when he tries to squirm the hands on his shoulders <em>tighten</em> and his eyes are stinging with unshed tears. And worst of it all, underneath the fear, the panic, the <em>hysteria </em>bubbling up in him, is a little voice pointing out he’s about to have a fucking panic attack and <em>cry </em>in a room full of strangers and his goddamned twin brother.</p>
<p>He can’t get enough air. The doctors are talking over the top of him but they may as well not be speaking English for all he understands. The big hands pressing into his shoulders feel too hot and too heavy. He feels like he’s choking.</p>
<p>But Andrew leans in, over the top of him, and Aaron’s gaze catches. He sucks in a breath.</p>
<p>Then Andrew takes Aaron’s right wrist, his uninjured arm, in a tight grip. Aaron tries on reflex to pull away but Andrew holds firm and he’s got no leverage. Andrew adjusts his grip and leans down, resting his chin on the bed railing by Aaron’s head. He’s close enough that Aaron can make out the faint, pale freckles on Andrew’s nose, and he’s— what the fuck? He’s… taking Aaron’s pulse.</p>
<p>His eyes are narrowed when he leans in closer, but he’s smirking when he murmurs, just loud enough for Aaron, “I want to see how badly you freak out. Should be interesting.”</p>
<p>And Aaron is <em>speechless </em>with rage, with hot, blinding hatred.</p>
<p>He glowers up into his brother’s identical face, teeth gritted so hard he feels his head starting to pound. He’s aware of his still-racing heartbeat, tries to consciously slow it, breathing steadily, thoughts reduced to a furious litany of <em>i hate you i hate you i hate you</em>s, because <em>fuck</em>. Only Andrew could be this cold, this callous, this much of an <em>asshole</em>, to turn his literal suffering into some kind of sick game, a competition. A way to mock and belittle Aaron when he’s at his lowest, to show that he’s <em>still </em>better…</p>
<p>And he’s pinned under Andrew’s soulless gaze and his steel grip when he distantly hears a “3, 2, 1—” and there’s a moment of white hot agony that drags a strangled noise from his lips. In the same instant, he feels his heart rate jump, his forehead collide with Andrew’s from his reflexive flinch and how close together they are, and then Dr. Bloom is saying;</p>
<p>“Great job, Aaron, you’re a total rockstar. Now just stay there for a couple minutes and catch your breath, we’re going to ice your arm again just while we prepare your cast. You shouldn’t need it on for longer than 4 or 5 weeks, okay?”</p>
<p>Aaron nods, dazedly. He’s blinking up at the hospital ceiling, shaking, suddenly aware there are no strangers’ hands on him any longer. Andrew’s hand is still grasped, loosely now, around Aaron’s wrist, but Andrew is looking away from the bed. His eyes are unfocussed, staring into the middle distance. And Aaron wants to shove him away from the bed, wants to tell him exactly what the fuck he thinks of him, but for the moment he’s out of breath and feels boneless. And he realises his good hand is twisted tightly into the front of Andrew’s shirt - he must have done it unconsciously.</p>
<p>The second Aaron loosens his grip and lets his hand drop, Andrew lets go of his wrist and backs up a few steps, still looking so distant he may as well not be there.</p>
<p>Aaron turns away, feeling a tiny flare of petty smugness on seeing the stretched out, wrinkled handprint in one of Andrew’s favourite black shirts. He hopes it’s ruined.</p>
<p>He closes his eyes and works on catching his breath. The shaking stops after a few minutes, and the pain in his arm has settled to pre-reduction levels. He’s not speaking to Andrew, and Andrew doesn’t speak to him.</p>
<p>Dr. Bloom comes back a little after that to cast his arm, and keeps up a friendly one-sided conversation. She doesn’t get more than two words out of Aaron, and she gets nothing out of Andrew. (<em>Fuck </em>him, Aaron thinks viciously.)</p>
<p>Finally, eventually, Dr. Bloom is placing the final wrapping on Aaron’s cast. She fits him with a sling and explains how and when to use it. Gives some other basic instructions about what he should and shouldn’t do in the first few weeks. Aaron’s tired; he tries to listen, but he might need to clarify some stuff with Abby later if he forgets details.</p>
<p>Then Dr. Bloom gives him a bottle of painkillers, which Andrew immediately takes off him and pockets. Aaron doesn’t fight him — as much as he hates his sociopath brother, he knows he’s not in a place where he can be in charge of his own bottle of pills right now. But after tonight’s display, he half expects Andrew to withhold them for kicks.</p>
<p>While the doctor is wrapping up with her final instructions, about what to do if he notices weird numbness or a sharp increase in pain, or if he falls onto his cast, or if he can’t move his fingers, Andrew is gathering up their belongings. So when Aaron’s muttering his half-hearted thanks to Dr. Bloom and getting ready to leave, Andrew’s right at his shoulder, Palmetto State duffels on his back and Aaron’s windbreaker over his arm.</p>
<p>They walk in silence back out to the waiting area; Aaron is still seething. His face feels hot, and he’s covered in a fresh layer of sweat from the fear and pain of having his fucking broken arm set and casted.</p>
<p>In his peripheral, Aaron sees Andrew dig out his phone from his bag and turn it on. Trying to work out who’s going to come and get them, Aaron supposes.</p>
<p>But then Aaron hears a call of “Minyard!”</p>
<p>It’s Coach — he and Abby are standing near the admissions desk, Abby looking flustered and a little angry, and Coach wearing his ‘done with this bullshit’ face. Abby looks up at Coach’s call, and smiles wide when she sees them.</p>
<p>Ignoring Aaron’s surely thunderous expression (and the fact that he’s gross and sweaty), Abby gives him a quick hug when she’s close enough. She immediately asks if he’s okay, and then, before he can answer, starts apologising about taking so long - something about the freshmen, and the car, and then something about parking, and then the staff not letting them in.</p>
<p>Aaron brushes off the apologies and explanations, nods tiredly at Coach’s gruff “You good, kid?”</p>
<p>He says, “I want to go home now.” He doesn’t even care if it make him sound like the middle schooler he apparently looks like; he’s exhausted, he’s in pain, it’s well past midnight. He wants to crawl into his bed at the dorms, phone Katelyn, and doze off listening to her beautiful voice.</p>
<p>“Of course, honey,” Abby says immediately. “I just need another 5 minutes here — there’s issues with the insurance paperwork I have to deal with. You two can wait outside in the fresh air.” She frowns concernedly, says “You’re looking very pale, Aaron.” She half-turns, says, “David-?”</p>
<p>“I’ll bring the car around to the front entrance,” he agrees, after a wordless moment of communication with Abby. He gestures Aaron and Andrew to follow him outside, then leaves them standing there by the entrance with instructions to stay put.</p>
<p>At least he doesn’t tell them to behave this time.</p>
<p>As soon as they’re outside the doors, Aaron takes a full deep breath of the cool night air and closes his eyes for a minute, enjoying the relief after hours in the stifling hospital.</p>
<p>Andrew, predictably, immediately lights up a cigarette. At least he’s downwind from Aaron.</p>
<p>And Aaron is determinedly not looking at his twin, which is why he’s startled when Andrew, determinedly not looking back, thrusts a protein bar towards Aaron. He frowns, but takes it and tears in immediately. He’s weirdly starving now, but he guesses he probably burned a lot of energy tonight between the game and the hours of stressing in the emergency room.</p>
<p>He’s inhaled about half the bar in under a minute, and he’s chewing furiously when something occurs to him. He glances down at the label, tilts it to try and read it better in the semi-darkness. He can’t make out the whole label, but he can see the words ‘chia seeds’ and possibly ‘cranberries’. He says, without thinking, “You wouldn’t eat this if someone <em>paid </em>you.”</p>
<p>Andrew shrugs, exhaling a lungful of smoke. “Stole it from Kevin’s locker after the game,” he admits.</p>
<p>Aaron frowns. So far as he knows, Andrew doesn’t make a habit of stealing from Kevin for fun. Especially not a protein bar he’d have no intention of eating. Unless… Andrew had stolen it for Aaron, on the assumption that he’d be joining Aaron at the hospital tonight? Aaron dismisses this idea almost immediately. It’s stupid.</p>
<p>But. He’d also brought Aaron his bag, inclusive of all of his stuff. Straight after the game. He’s pretty sure he’d left it not even close to packed, his shit spread all over the locker room. He thinks he might have even left his windbreaker in the lounge.</p>
<p>He considers, Andrew had sat up half the night in the emergency room with him. He hadn’t complained once, or even left to smoke. He could’ve not come at all, and instead taken the others to Columbia for the night. It surely would have been better fun than this.</p>
<p>And, he’s the prickliest, most touch-averse bastard Aaron’s ever met; he refuses every well-meaning hug from Nicky (and Nicky’s actually really nice to hug, but Aaron would rather die than admit it), barely tolerates <em>Kevin</em> using him for balance when he’s too drunk to stand. Kevin, who is thoroughly non-threatening and who Aaron is sure Andrew would take a bullet for. He’s never even seen Andrew touch Neil, not really. Not outside of that hotel room after Baltimore.</p>
<p>But, he’d let Aaron rest his head on his shoulder. He’d <em>suggested it</em>. Which is… Aaron doesn’t know exactly how to feel about that. Except for confused.</p>
<p>From anyone else it would’ve been a friendly gesture. But from Andrew—</p>
<p>There is a long stretch of silence between them while Aaron tiredly puzzles, trying to add up the events of tonight. The pieces don’t fit together properly, no matter how he looks at them. Unless….</p>
<p>Aaron feels himself start to frown. “Andrew,” he says quietly, already feeling stupid. “Did you make me angry on purpose, in there? So I’d stop freaking out?”</p>
<p>Andrew freezes in place, muscles locked with tension. He forcibly relaxes after a silent moment, looks at Aaron from the corner of his eye. He takes two long drags from his cigarette and stubs it out on the bricks behind him before he answers. “You make it too easy.” <em>Yes</em>.</p>
<p>Aaron closes his eyes and leans hard against the brick wall, lets out a long shuddering breath. <em>Okay,</em> he thinks. <em>Okay.</em> He needs to rethink the events of that little hospital room. But he can do that.</p>
<p>When he opens his eyes again, he sees that Andrew is standing fractionally closer than before. He’s eyeing Aaron with a weird look on his mostly-expressionless face. And Aaron kind of thinks, even aimed at him instead of Neil for a change, he can guess at the look being <em>worry</em>.</p>
<p>So he tips over, a little, to nudge Andrew’s shoulder with his own, and says “I’m okay, you know.”</p>
<p>And Andrew goes still for a full fifteen seconds this time before he says, “Did I fucking ask,” and busies himself lighting another cigarette.</p>
<p>Aaron doesn’t quite manage to suppress his smile.</p>
<p>They stand there for another minute, maybe two, before Andrew breaks the silence.</p>
<p>He says, looking out at the parking lot, “Hey. Tell Coach to go drive-thru on our way back to the dorm.”</p>
<p>Aaron surprises himself with a snort, says, “What?! Tell him yourself, what the fuck.”</p>
<p>“He’ll go if <em>you </em>ask. You’re one of his beloved Foxes who got injured on his court tonight.”</p>
<p>Aaron stares at Andrew’s profile, backlit from the streetlights around the lot, absently puffing little breaths of smoke into the night air. Wonders if he knows how absolutely ludicrous he sounds right now. He tries, “You want me to <em>guilt </em>Coach into getting us nuggets?”</p>
<p>“And giant sundaes,” Andrew agrees. He pushes himself up off the wall, dropping his cigarette and grinding it beneath his shoe. He picks up the duffels from the ground and points, says, “Our ride.”</p>
<p>Aaron levers himself upright, watching the headlights of Coach’s car approach.</p>
<p>Then he gives a long-suffering sigh. “I guess I could go some nuggets,” he says.</p>
<p>And, it’s probably just a trick of the streetlights. But before Andrew turns to load their shit into the trunk of Coach’s car, Aaron is sure he sees Andrew’s mouth tic upward in a tiny smile.</p>
<p> </p>
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  <b>END.</b>
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